


from the road to the sea (to the sky)

by bonebo



Category: Final Fantasy XIII
Genre: Brainwashing, Bukkake, Deep Throating, Gangbang, Genital Mutilation, Kidnapping, Large Insertion, M/M, Male Lactation, Multi, Oral Sex, Piercing, Rape, Sounding, Torture, insertion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-02 20:24:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11516787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonebo/pseuds/bonebo
Summary: Snow Villiers wakes up half-blind and disoriented, alone in a chamber of solid white.





	1. Chapter 1

Snow Villiers wakes up half-blind and disoriented, alone in a chamber of solid white. 

The first thing he can feel, as he’s pulled back into awareness from the cloying grip of unconsciousness, is an almost painful chill on his bare body--he lies naked on a cold table, the metal unforgiving to his spine and hips, his limbs splayed wide and held there by coarse leather straps that chafe and rub harshly against his slender ankles and wrists. His eyes blearily blink open, just to immediately squeeze shut again when he’s faced with the bright fluorescent lights burning down overhead; they hurt to look at, searing his retinas and scalding him on the inside, until he turns his head to the side as much as the straps pulling his body taut will allow.

The room he’s held captive in is completely bare--with short white walls that look far too close and a white ceiling, a white tile floor covered in faint, splotchy stains of pink and yellow tint. To his left is a stainless steel table, bearing two rows of objects that Snow can barely make out from where he’s at: on the table there’s a stack of short metal rods in various thicknesses, a few syringes and small vials of fluid, and three shiny, pink phallic-like objects made of smooth plastic that look as big as his arm. The rest of the items piled onto the table he can’t make out from where he’s tied down, too obscured to be seen clearly, but just what he can see is enough to have dread coiling up cold in his gut.

Snow swallows down the rising panic and tells himself to be strong. He tears his gaze away from the table, and looks down at himself instead.

It’s strange seeing himself in such a clinical setting--seeing this body that he knows so intimately stretched out, tied up, left entirely vulnerable--but what makes his mouth go dry, what has him choking on air, is what he doesn’t know, what is new. There’s a thin plastic tube fed into the tip of his flaccid penis, and he imagines he can feel the end of it, fluttering against the inside of his belly when he breathes; there’s writing over the toned mounds of his pectorals, dotted lines around his nipples and tiny little x’s across the pebbled, darker skin of his areola.

_First Injection Here_

__

__

_Fourth Injection Here_

_Pierce Here_

And it’s only when Snow looks up, tilting his head back as far as it will go and straining the muscles in his neck, that he can see a flash of silver above him. He squints at the gleam of metal, trying to make out what exactly it is: it’s some kind of machinery arm, he thinks, a curved, slender steel rod with some kind of lead pad attached to the end. He can’t see what the arm connects to, but--especially considering the state of the rest of his surroundings--Snow cannot imagine it’s anything but horrible.

“...Hello?” he tries, calling out into the hopeless, endless white; and it’s only the hoarse echo of his own voice that answers. 

No doors open, no sound comes into the room to spare him from the silence.

Snow has no idea how long he lays in the blank room--alone, isolated, struggling against the leather straps that hold him fast and yelling for someone, anyone--without even a clock to watch. It feels like a full day has passed before the panic and fear finally fades enough for the exhaustion, the fatigue, to creep in; and when it does it settles heavy, an inescapable iron over his bones.

He dozes in short, fitful bursts, sleeping in discomfort to combat his boredom until the hunger pangs wake him; and then it’s back to staring, from the ceiling to the walls, yelling into the unanswering void. 

He’s eventually thankful for the catheter--at least he’s spared the humiliation of pissing himself, even though there’s no one around to see. It’s not much of a mercy, considering that he’s still bound, still starved, still being driven insane from the lack of stimuli and interaction; but it’s something.

Right now, it’s all he has. 

It will have to be enough.


	2. Chapter 2

His fate changes.

Alone in his prison of white, Snow has no way of knowing how long it’s been since he’s last seen another human being--so when he’s awoken from a seemingly-endless doze by thundering footsteps, when he lifts his head to see a half-dozen men filing in his room through a door he’d never noticed before, it almost comes as a relief.

But then he notices the blocky patterns of their uniforms, the dull shades of grey, white, yellow that he knows as PSICOM, and his stomach drops.

“Who are you?” Snow asks, his voice cracking from disuse, from how dry his throat has become. “What--what do you want? Why am I here?”

“So many questions, Snow,” one trooper answers, entirely monotone; he circles around Snow, and stops at his head, peering down at him with an expressionless helmet. “And yet, only one answer. You’re a L’cie, you’ve been branded with the mark...but.”

The trooper trails off--and when he speaks next, it’s with a hint of mirth coloring his tone.

“We want to know what it will take to see you break.”

“To see me--?” Snow snarls viciously, tossing his head and writhing against his restraints that hold him pinned to the table. “Let me go, you bastards! I don’t know what kind of sick torture you’ve got in mind, but if you think I’m just going to sit here and take it--”

“Oh no, Snow,” the trooper says, patting at Snow’s cheek--he has to jerk his hand away when Snow tries to snap at his fingers. “We wouldn’t dream of you just lying here and letting us experiment with you...that would be no fun. You wouldn’t enjoy it at all, I think, and that’s just not fair, is it?”

“I’m _never_ going to enjoy anything you twisted fucks do to me--!”

“We were afraid you might say that,” the trooper says, though he sounds anything but remorseful. He reaches up to pat the machinery arm that Snow had glimpsed earlier. “That’s why we have this. Just to make sure that you enjoy yourself as much as we do.”

He reaches up to the lead pad hanging from the machine’s arm, and pulls it down--another trooper comes up to hold Snow’s head still, to keep the worst of his thrashing at bay while each lead is carefully placed, forming a crown around his hairline.

“I would say this won’t hurt,” the first trooper says, before chuckling. “But that would be a lie. Let’s see how tough you really are, Villiers.”

Snow tries to retort--tries to do _anything_ but just lie there, helpless--and when his world is blown to pieces in a flash of white light, he can’t even find the breath to scream.

The agony comes in pulses, accompanied by more flashes of blinding white; all Snow can do is dig his fingers into the table, thrash and jerk where he lies, suffer through everything from his joints threatening to split apart to his lungs seizing up. His vision is lost to alternating bursts of white and black and a kaleidoscope of color, as dazzling as it is disorienting--and in his ears all he can hear is the roar of his own blood, the sound of his life thudding along through his veins. 

To Snow, the torture lasts for hours--days--weeks. Time becomes meaningless, when his very brain is being shaken, shocked, scrambled; liquified inside his head, as the cluster of PSICOM soldiers stand around and observe.

By the time the torment is over, it may as well have been going for a lifetime. 

The PSICOM trooper flips a switch, and the machine comes to a stop with a quiet whining noise before slipping back into its idle state. Beneath it, Snow stares blankly at the ceiling, his eyes wide and vacant as his body occasionally jerks or twitches. Tears streak his cheeks and soak into his messy hairline. Drool bubbles at the part of his slightly ajar, cracked lips.

The trooper pats at his cheek, and Snow flinches.

“What’s your name?” the trooper asks, turning Snow’s head this way and that, examining him--and smiling beneath his helmet at the lack of resistance that meets him. “Who are you?”

“S-S...sss….”

The trooper squeezes, digging his fingers into the slack spaces of Snow’s cheeks. “Your name is Snow.”

“Snow,” he repeats, his voice thick and dragging, like a man drugged. “My name...is...Snow.”

“Good boy. And what are you, Snow?” 

Again, Snow falls quiet--there’s a blankness in his wet eyes, as he slowly looks around the room, drags his gaze from one glaring visor to the next. “I...I am…”

“You are a _whore_ ,” the trooper says, releasing Snow’s cheeks suddenly and harshly, like he’s been burned. “You are a sex slave, Snow. You exist to serve your betters with your body. Your purpose in life is to obey any orders you are given. Do you understand?”

Snow blinks up at the ceiling for a moment, as if processing the information; but then he slowly nods, jerking his head like he hasn’t quite regained control of his muscles.

“I-I...understand.” He licks his dry lips, and his voice comes out slow, clearly laboured. “I...am a whore. I exist...to serve others...with my body.”

The trooper cackles, patting at Snow’s tangled hair roughly. “Good boy. That’s right. Now say it again--what’s your name?”

Snow swallows, slowly regaining some of his strength and coordination. “My name...is Snow.”

“And what are you, Snow?”

“I...am a whore.”


	3. Chapter 3

_“I am a whore.”_

The words echo in Snow’s mind as he’s unstrapped from the table and pulled upright; a thick, stiff band of leather is fastened around his throat, sharp and sudden enough to have him gasping. When he reaches up with swaying, shaking hands to claw weakly at the rough leather, his wrists are grabbed in an iron grip and jerked backward, shackled together behind the small of his back.

“You keep your hands right here,” one of the guards growls, his breath hot against Snow’s ear and making the hair along the back of his neck prickle and rise. “You move again, and I’ll break your arms. You understand me?”

Snow nods, swallows thickly to clear the sudden surge of bile in his throat. “Y-yes, sir.”

A sharp smack rings out through the room, and Snow’s head spins with the force of the slap.

“I didn’t tell you to speak, whore.” He yanks on the leash harshly to send Snow stumbling forward. “Walk.”

And Snow obeys; staggers between the cage of arms as he’s herded toward the door the guards themselves had entered from, and finds himself walking out into a narrow hall. On either side of him are cages--rows of cages, lit dimly enough that the bodies inside are cast in shadow as they move.

Snow startles when a hand flings out between the bars, grabbing his ankle in a desperate vice grip. 

“S-Snow…” A young woman looks up at him through the dirty pink tangles of her hair, her aqua eyes glittery-bright with terror and unshed tears. “Snow, _Snow_ \--help me--”

“Silence!” One of the guards kicks at the woman’s hand, making her jerk back with a yelp, and shoves Snow forward with a rough hand between his shoulderblades. “Keep walking, whore.”

Snow hesitates, his gaze lingering over his shoulder--meeting with the woman’s own where they shine wetly in the darkness of her cell, like she’s begging, pleading with him for something--but another harsh push at the back of his neck, a shout of, “I said, _move_!” has him stumbling forward.

Ultimately, Snow knows that the girl is pretty, and that she looks sad; but he doesn’t know her. He feels sorry for her and the cage she’s locked in, but what is he supposed to do to help some stranger?

“You pull some shit like that again,” the guard snarls behind him, making Snow jolt, “and I’ll break your fucking legs off. You won’t ever fucking walk again. You understand me?”

Snow closes his eyes and tries to keep himself from imagining the horror of a life rendered entirely immobile. “Y-yes, sir.”

“Good.” They come to a stop outside a small white chamber, with rows of railing and small machines set up along the far wall; the room stinks of antiseptic, and makes Snow’s nose wrinkle. “Get inside.”

He walks in slowly, cautiously, looking around--and yelps as the collar fastened around his throat is jerked. He staggers after the pulling helplessly, whimpers as he’s pulled toward one of the little machines; he tries to study it, to piece together what it is or what it does, but doesn’t have enough time before he’s shoved down onto his knees.

“Down.”

On either side of him are two solid-looking metal rails, coming up from the floor and attaching to the wall behind him. Snow sways a little between them, looking up at his guards with wide eyes as hands reach for his collar again; but even as he flinches away, all the guards do is loop a thick cable through the D-ring attached to the front. The ends of the cable are jerked taut and tied securely to each railing, leaving him on his knees between them, his hands still tied behind his back and his body quivering a little where he’s restrained.

One guard crouches in front of him, grabbing Snow’s chin between his fingers and squeezing, turning his head this way and that for examination. “He’s skinnier than when we first picked him up,” he comments, tugging Snow’s upper eyelid back to peer at his irises. “Are you sure he’s even got enough weight on him for this to work?”

“Oh yeah.” Another guard comes up and drops down beside Snow as well. “Look at this.”

He reaches out to grab at one of Snow’s pectorals--and Snow throws his head back with a harsh, strangled keen, his eyes flying open wide. He looks down at himself sharply, his mouth falling open; when had his chest grown so big? 

Where there was once just smooth, firm muscle, now Snow’s pectorals are gently swollen, soft and plush; they’re more sensitive than he ever remembers them being. Just the feel of the guard squeezing at them, weighing them in his palms--the brush of his thumbs over Snow’s enlarged, flushed nipples, hot to the touch--is enough to have Snow trembling.

“Look at him, so sensitive now...not so tough, eh?” The guard chuckles and pinches at Snow’s nipple, gives it a quick tug--and Snow keens at it, his head falling back as his chest arches forward, a prickling bolt of pleasure-pain being pulled from somewhere deep inside him. The tug repeats, and Snow whimpers, finally looking down at himself just in time to see a thin, watery dribble of white trickling over the guard’s fingers.

“W-wha...what…?”

“It’s milk, dumb bitch.” The guard pulls his fingers back, studies them for a moment--scissoring them to see the milk move fluidly between them--then wipes his fingers across Snow’s cheek. “You’re finally gonna start earning your keep.”

He climbs to his feet, then glances over to the other guard, still crouched by Snow’s side. “Get him hooked up. Let’s see what this cow can give us.”

Snow looks between them, his eyes wide and frightened. “Hooked up--what? To what?”

“No one told you to speak!” Another slap turns his head, makes his vision blur; and Snow whines hoarsely at the pain, blinking back tears. 

He stares downward, bleak and defeated--keeps staring as the guard grabs for the miniature machine and the two clear plastic cups attached by hoses to it. The guard’s fingers return, smearing a thick, gel-like substance over Snow’s swollen nipples and making him tremble; he flips a switch on the machine and presses the cups over the generous swell of Snow’s pectorals, chuckling over the noise of Snow’s startled cry.

The suction at his chest is intense, a prickling kind of almost-pleasure that’s strong enough to have his eyes rolling back in his head. When he finally manages to glance down at himself again, bleary-eyed and dazed, he can see the milk splashing in thin white rivulets against the clear cups, pooling at the bottom before trickling down the hoses and into the small bottles attached to the machine. He stares at it, horrified, and tries to wriggle free, to dislodge the cups at his breasts; but the shackles around his wrists, the ties at his throat, hold firm.

He cannot move.

All he can do is stay there and sway weakly on his knees, bound between the railings like a cow in a stall. 

The guard stays crouched by his side for a moment longer, reaches out to squeeze at Snow’s tit behind the cup--and laughs when each squeeze makes more milk jet out of his puffy nipples, has Snow jolting like he’s been shocked. “How does it feel, huh, cow?”

Snow looks up at him blearily, tears pooling along his lashes; and his mouth drops open with a sharp, breathy sort of keen when the cups start to suck at his tits stronger, working them in alternating tugs that have goosebumps rising along his arms. It hurts, like needles working along his breasts from the inside, but each suck also pulls an intense sort of pleasure from deep in his gut--a faint sense of relief at having the weight over his chest diminished, bit by bit.

He hiccups when the guard pats his head, and lets it droop between his shoulders, moaning weakly as the machine continues to milk him. He closes his eyes to the sound of the guard’s fading footsteps, and his chuckle.

“I’ll be back to check on you, cow. You be good while I’m gone.”


	4. Chapter 4

Snow’s misery knows no limits.

Two guards return to him, hours later--after his tits are so sore that every pull on them has him howling, the bottles of milk filled to overflowing--and Snow looks up with tears streaked down his blotchy cheeks, drool dribbling down his chin.

“P-please,” he whispers, voice hoarse; he trembles where he’s held in his stocks, his fists clenching and unclenching behind his back. “Please...please…”

One guard crouches in front of him, and though the visor over his face makes his expression unreadable, it’s easy to detect the mirth in his voice as he asks, “What is your name?”

Snow chokes on the thick spit that refuses to be swallowed. “...S-Snow.”

His chin is grabbed between two fingers, squeezed as his head is turned from side to side. 

“And what are you, Snow?”

“I-I…” He grits his teeth on a wail as a particularly strong suck on his tits has spots dancing in front of his eyes, and gasps, “I’m a whore!”

The guard laughs, and the hand gripping Snow’s chin releases him to pat clumsily over his cheek instead. “Good.”

Snow lets his eyes close, his shoulders hitching weakly; and he yelps as the suction is removed from his tits, looks down to find them red, swollen, the puffy nipples still leaking little droplets of milk. The guard stands and unties the rope holding Snow in his stocks, and without the support to hold him upright Snow sags down to the ground, his aching muscles too weak to keep him up.

“Ah-ah. None of that, now.” His leash is grabbed, yanked; and Snow scrambles up to his feet, staggering after the guards as he’s led from the room and back to the chamber of white that he first woke up in. 

He steps in the door and immediately halts, his eyes widening--because the room is filled with troopers, half a dozen or more. Another sharp jerk has him moving again, reluctantly, following the guard who holds his leash as he’s dragged out to the center of the room.

“He’s been a good little cow,” the guard says, grabbing a fistful of pale hair and shoving Snow down until his knees meet the floor with a harsh crack. “But I think he’s ready for the next stage of his training. I think it’s about time we got some real use out of him...don’t you guys?”

The room breaks out in quiet, muffled chuckles and laughter, and Snow looks around, wide-eyed and frightened, as the guards slowly close in on him; but then the one holding his hair jerks his head back around, and he finds himself face to face with the man’s cock, fat and flushed where it hangs out through the opening in his uniform.

“Get to work,” the trooper says, and Snow finds his fears fading away.

This is what he was made to do--to drag his tongue up the trooper’s cock and suck the head into his mouth, to have his head pulled back by his hair and open up his throat for the trooper’s dick. He closes his eyes as the stiff length of hot flesh is crammed down his throat, cutting off his air and making him choke; he struggles weakly, the tickling brush of the guard’s dirty pubes a suffocating presence over his nose, making any gasps of air he can get tinged thickly with the sour musk of his sweat.

“That’s good,” the guard above him moans, rocking his hips just a bit further forward, until he has Snow’s lips pressing up against the base of his cock. He reaches down with one hand, petting his fingertips clumsily over the bulge his shaft makes in Snow’s throat. “That’s right...just like that. Stay like that, good and deep…”

“I want a turn,” another trooper grumbles, stepping up with his cock in hand. He grabs Snow by his hair and jerks him back--gives him just a heartbeat, to gasp and choke on the fresh air--then crams him right back down over his own length, pistoning his hips forward to force the long length of his cock into the tight grip of Snow’s throat. “Oh, fuck…”

“He’s good, isn’t he?” The first guard chuckles, jerking himself off with the slick, stringy clumps of thick spit left behind by the clutch of Snow’s throat. He waves a hand to the other troopers, beckoning them over. “C’mon, boys...come get your dicks wet. Let’s get some use out of this l’Cie whore.”

Snow can barely hear the guard’s words, over the wet sound of his throat being pummeled by the other trooper’s stiff cock--but he can guess at what was said, when he’s jerked off one dick to find himself suddenly staring at five more, all flushed varying shades of red and purple and throbbing inches from his face, waiting for his attention. He stares at them, slack-jawed and overwhelmed, trying to decide where to start; and the decision is made for him, as one guard grabs his head and slams him down the length of his prick, face-fucking Snow in earnest.

He loses track of how many dicks are forced past his lips--just tries to relax his throat and take them, even when tears spring to his eyes and he finds himself choking. As the abuse continues, he can feel the grip of his throat starting to go lax, slackening with every brutal thrust that he’s forced to take; and yet they still keep coming, holding him by his cheeks or his hair or his jaw and fucking into his mouth, slamming their balls against his chin and smearing his drool over his face. If they notice how his throat starts to loosen around their pistoning cocks they say nothing.

It might even be what they were waiting for, Snow thinks blearily, as he’s yanked backward and held still for a trooper to spray thick strings of cum across his face with a low, drawn-out moan. It’s like a sort of signal--has the others following in a domino effect, and Snow finds himself held still as he’s painted with spurt after spurt of hot cum, as it clumps in his lashes and streaks over his nose, plasters his bangs to his forehead and clings to the rims of his nostrils. He’s panting by the time they’re finished, his jaw aching and unable to be held closed, fucked wide open by the troopers’ dicks. 

He looks up through one eye, only able to open it halfway for the cum that drips across his eyelid, when he feels a soft, spongy presence against his lips. It’s the guard that had brought him into the room in the first place, his cock softening and starting to droop as he paints the slick tip across Snow’s swollen lips.

“That was fun,” he murmurs, fingers rough as they comb through the cum-stiff tangles of Snow’s hair. “Let’s see what else you can do.”


	5. Chapter 5

The troopers give him no time to rest.

Before Snow can even drag in a gasping breath he’s grabbed by his hair and pulled; he staggers after the tugging in his hair back over to the table, and the push between his shoulderblades has him falling forward onto the hard, cold metal gracelessly.

“Get him up here proper,” someone says, and Snow moans weakly as his legs are grabbed, his body dragged around the table until he’s positioned the way the troopers want: with his body bent out along the table, his arms dangling free at his sides and his toes scraping the floor, bare ass up in the air completely at the mercy of the gathered guards.

“That’s better.” A gloved hand comes down hard on Snow’s ass, has him yelping and bucking where he lies--and as soon as he does, there’s more weight at his shoulders as another guard climbs up onto the table, holding him down with one broad hand on the back of his neck.

“Stay still, bitch,” the man growls, squeezing at the sides of Snow’s neck until his vision blurs, until his body falls corpse-still on the table. “It’s about time we got some good use out of you. You’re gonna make us all feel good, aren’t you?”

And Snow nods, his cheek rubbing against the cold steel. “Y-yes…”

“Because what are you?” The grip at his neck tightens, has spots dancing in front of Snow’s eyes. “Say it nice and loud, so everyone can hear you.”

“I’m--a whore…”

A quiet ripple of laughter echoes through the room, and the hand holding Snow’s neck releases him, fingertips returning to rub soothingly over the pinched muscles.

“Good boy. Now open those legs.”

Snow obeys--spreading his thighs as much as he can for the gloves that return, slick and cold, to probe between his cheeks at the hidden pucker of his hole. One finger slips inside quick and careless and Snow cries out, lifting his head like looking over his shoulder at the faceless trooper currently fingering him will make it any easier, like his wide eyes will get them to stop; all it does is get his head pushed back down by the trooper on the table and a hand fisted in his hair, a growl of, “Stay still, whore. We’ve got something special planned for you.”

“Maybe he just needs something to keep him occupied,” someone suggests, from a corner of the room Snow can’t see. It makes the trooper holding his head down chuckle, has the fingers knotted in his hair loosening, stroking over his cheek instead. 

“...yeah...maybe so.” He pulls Snow’s head up and squeezes his cheeks together, until Snow’s lips are puffed out and glittering with drool, his eyes crossing. “Is that it, you stupid bitch? Do you just need something to do, while we get your slutty pussy ready for us?”

Snow looks up, his lips twitching as he presumably tries to speak; and the trooper gives his head a vicious shake, turning his words into nothing more than a stuttering sort of groan.

“Don’t try to talk, whore.” The man lets Snow’s head fall back to the table and gives his half-hard cock a few quick strokes, trying to work it back toward full arousal. “All you gotta do is open your mouth and let us in that hole, and everything will be okay. You understand?”

Snow nods again, blearily, and obediently lets his mouth fall open when he feels the trooper’s slick, spongy cockhead probing at his lips. It’s an easy thing, to let it slide against his tongue and down into the well-fucked, accepting grip of his throat, to close his eyes against the musky smell when he’s pushed down to the base and has his nose buried in the coarse and curly hairs there.

“That’s it,” the guard purrs, patting clumsily at Snow’s hair as he rolls his hips forward just that little bit more; and it’s not the additional half-inch of cock crammed down his abused throat that has Snow gasping, but instead the second thick finger worked into the lubed-up clench of his hole, forcing him open before he has a chance to even begin to get used to the feeling. Tears prick at his eyes as the fingers make quick work of stretching him, pistoning in and out in a brutal rhythm that has him gasping around the cock shoved down his throat--his fingers scrabble weakly at the table beneath him, his cry of pain muffled by the trooper’s thick shaft, and yet all he can do is lay on the table and writhe as he’s speared between two unyielding points.

“If you think this is bad, you’d better brace yourself for a whole storm, little whore,” he’s told, as a rough hand pets down the knobs of his spine and stops to grab a fistful of his ass. “By the time we’re done, we’re gonna turn you into a bottle-holder. We’re gonna wreck this little boy-pussy and ruin you for anything smaller than a fist, you understand?”

And Snow tries to nod, as much as he can; winds up just bobbing his head on the shaft plugging up his throat and gagging himself further, squeezing his eyes shut at the feeling of more fingers invading his ass, probing rude and intrusive around inside in his guts and forcing the muscle to yield. The dick in his mouth becomes almost forgotten, overlooked as merely a mild inconvenience in the face of the pain that flares in white-hot and fiery bolts up his spine.

The guards are kind enough to start with fingers--but that is where their mercy ends. As soon as three digits can work somewhat easily into Snow’s ass, forcing the muscle to stretch and work and yield, they’re removed; and Snow howls around the shaft buried in his throat as another cock is forced up into the abused hole, jammed past the slackened ring to bury within the warm clutch of Snow’s ass.

“Look--I think he likes it,” the trooper coos, petting over Snow’s messy pale hair and using a thumb to wipe away a stray tear that clings to his eyelashes. “Every time you push in deeper, he makes all these nice noises…”

“Of course he does. He’s a whore, it just took some coaching for him to realize it.”

And the guard thrusts in deeper, jerking his hips forward to bury his cock up to the balls in Snow’s ass--and Snow howls at it, thrashing like he’s attached to a live wire until both troopers pin him down with unforgiving hands and steel grips on his hips, in his hair. When his head is jerked up he sucks in a gasping breath, sucking in air through snot and tears and closing his eyes as a gloved hand comes down to slap him across the cheek.

“Choke yourself on my cock,” Snow is told, and he tries to obey; bracing his hands on the table and bobbing his head in rapid, harsh movements, forcing the trooper’s shaft down past the clutch of his throat over and over, gagging noisily every time. Thick spit drips from his mouth in long strings to sluggishly trail down his chin, pool beneath him on the ground--and he slips in it every time the guard behind him pounds in, throwing his whole weight into every thrust and sending Snow rocking forward with a weak moan of pain.

The brutal fucking doesn’t stop--doesn’t even slow down, because as soon as one guard cums another is taking his place, until the whole room has had a taste of Snow’s ass and left him a gaping, dripping mess--and by the time the tenth trooper has slid his cock into Snow’s sloppy hole, he scowls, looking down at the well-fucked, puffy rim and running a thumb over the abused muscle disdainfully.

“This hole’s all loose now,” he mutters, sliding a finger in beside his cock and scowling as it hardly even stretches Snow’s rim. He looks up to glance around the room, and beckons another trooper forward. 

“C’mon. We gotta do some work to make this pussy useful again.”


	6. Chapter 6

‘Some work’ ends up putting Snow on his back with another guard lying beneath him on the table, his ankles grabbed and pushed up toward his bare chest--and to the sound of his whimpers and his whines, the guard beneath him slides his cock into the worked-slack grip of Snow’s hole, digging his fingers into Snow’s hips and groaning when he’s seated fully in.

“Go on,” he mutters gruffly, his face buried in Snow’s neck to nuzzle at his racing pulse; and Snow’s eyes widen as he feels the guard still standing between his legs start to press his own cock in, alongside the shaft already nestled up in the abused hole.

“W-wait--!”

“Quiet, whore,” the first trooper snaps, slapping a hand over Snow’s mouth; and Snow’s tears streak over the guard’s glove as he’s forced to accept both dicks spearing into him, jostling for position inside his ass, finally settling only when he’s stretched to what feels like the absolute limit and then some.

“That’s better,” the trooper purrs, grabbing Snow’s ankles and squeezing hard as he rolls his hips forward, starting to fuck into the tightened space with leisure. “All it takes is two dicks to make this pussy a good little hole again...who knew, Snow?” He laughs, pulling a hand off of one of Snow’s ankles to instead squeeze at the meat of his thigh, right where his leg meets his ass. “You’re a double-dick craving, needy slut with a greedy hole--”

“--and what else are you, Snow?” the other trooper interjects, grabbing a fistful of Snow’s hair to tug his head back and bare the vulnerable lines of his throat to the room. “What are you?”

Tears streak Snow’s flushed cheeks, his wild eyes as red-rimmed and puffy as his abused ass. “I’m a whore!”

“That’s right,” the guard growls, bracing his feet so he can rock quicker into Snow’s fucked-slack hole, the leather of his uniform slapping obscenely against Snow’s sweat and cum-slick skin. “You’re a whore, and this is what whores get: two dicks crammed into their sloppy, greedy fuck holes.” He slaps a hand down on the supple flesh of Snow’s upper thigh, and grins at his ragged cry. “Isn’t that right?”

_“Yes!”_

Together, the two guards manage to fuck Snow’s ass until he’s raw--have him trembling and crying and scrabbling uselessly at the table, biting at his chapped lips as he tries to endure the agony of the double penetration. They spare no thought for the pain he has to go through, for the discomfort of his spine and his hips as he’s held folded over in the awkward position, for the tattered remains of his dignity; all the two troopers focus on is their own pleasure, the wet warmth of Snow’s cum-filled ass, the slick and noisy squelching that accompanies every plunge of their cocks into Snow’s creamy, red-rimmed gape. 

They cum nearly in tandem--the guard beneath Snow finishing first, gasping as he grabs at Snow’s neck and starts to choke him, the sight of Snow’s tearing-up eyes and reddening face only heightening his pleasure--and when their soft cocks pull free it’s to the sight of his hole slack and gaping, thick streams of cum sluggishly drooling from the abused, red flesh.

“I just don’t think it’s enough,” another trooper says, coming forward; he pulls a thick stun baton off his belt and slides it out to its full length, giving it a few practice swings through the air as he gets nearer. With his free hand, he plays with Snow’s gape--using two fingers to stretch it wide, another slipped inside to stir up the creamy mess of semen, and after a moment of consideration he nudges the end of the baton up against the wrecked hole. “Maybe something like this will get you to make some noise, Snow…”

He starts to slide the baton in--forcing it past the puffy rim of muscle, making Snow’s hole swallow up the weapon that’s as thick as his forearm--and grins at the weak whimpers that leave Snow’s cracked lips, the breathy noises of pain that have Snow arching his back up off the table. The stretch of his asshole is nothing short of obscene, a cherry-red ring around the baton’s black width as the baton is slowly forced deeper and deeper into the clutch of his body; and when it’s fully seated within him it has Snow whining, has him looking down with wild, teary eyes to the noticeable bulge at the bottom of his belly that distends his skin from the inside out.

“That’s better, isn’t it, whore?” The trooper pats at Snow’s bulge and laughs at the way he flinches, then grabs the short length of baton still sticking out of Snow’s ass to give it a brutal thrust; he has to speak over Snow’s wail to ask him, “Is that enough for you to feel, now? Does your broken little pussy feel that?”

“You’re going to ruin his asshole,” another guard says--but he still watches the scene with a hand on his own cock, lazily stroking over the half-hard flesh as he walks closer to get a better view of the abuse. “Look at how wide he is... After that, we’ll have to find a new hole on him to fuck. His ass won’t be worth anything.”

And it’s like his words set off a switch; has a new trooper stalking forward and grabbing Snow’s thighs, yanking them open to splay wide and expose the soft length of his cock, previously untouched where it lies against his leg. He moves one hand to stroke up the flaccid length with a finger, and teases at the slit of Snow’s urethra with his fingertip.

“I have an idea.”


	7. Chapter 7

They tie him again--with straps around his throat that are tight enough to choke and more digging into the skin of his chest, his waist, removing any chance of movement--and it’s only when he’s lying on his back, his teary eyes looking around the room wildly and his mouth hanging ajar, drool leaking down his chin like the cum that’s dribbling from his gaping asshole to pool beneath him on the table, that the troopers surround him.

“We’re gonna make you a good whore again,” one says, his touch deceptively kind as he strokes a gloved hand through Snow’s messy hair; and Snow leans into the contact as much as he can, closes his eyes so tears race in hot tandem down his cheeks.

He just wants to be good for them. 

He just wants to be good--so he tries not to jerk when his cock is grabbed, tries to be still even as cold lubricant is drizzled over the tip. One of the troopers produces a collection of metal rods, starting at a size equal to a coffee stirrer and ranging all the way up to some as thick as three of Snow’s fingers, and he tries to swallow down the fear. 

Stay still. Be good.

He watches with wide eyes as the first rod nudges up against the slit of his cock, gently parting the wet, soft skin; and then he stares as it’s slid inside, swallowed up by the meat of his dick like it belongs there.

It feels...unpleasant, decidedly, but not exactly painful--violating in the way that an intrusion somewhere so intimate would have to be--and Snow is almost grateful for the straps that keep him held, because he’s sure that any jerking of his hips would only make the rod stab in deeper, force it to be painful. As it slowly works in and out of him, a glide made slick by the lubricant and the trooper’s surprisingly gentle hands, it starts to become less and less horrible; his body gradually adjusts to the intimate stretch, and Snow lets his eyes close as the trooper petting his hair coos at him, scratches behind his ear like he would a well-behaved dog.

“That’s right,” he says, his fingers combing through Snow’s hair to break up the cum-tangled clumps. “You just lie there and let us fix you up...what a good whore. You’re gonna be back to taking our cocks real nice in no time.”

Snow tries to focus on the praise instead of the feeling of the rod moving inside his cock, and when it’s finally pulled free he can’t help his whimper of relief; he closes his eyes and relaxes back against the table, grateful to finally have the strange experience over with.

And then he jolts against the straps as he feels another cool metal rod brushing up against his cock again.

His eyes snap open and he stares, horrified, at the rod that the trooper butts up against his slick, shiny-red slit--much thicker than the last, about as big around as his gloved thumb. Snow tries to move, to jerk his hips away from the intrusion that won’t possibly be able to fit, and is met by both the firm restraint of the straps and the iron grip of the guards surrounding him.

“Don’t you move,” one trooper says, his hand wrapping snug around Snow’s face, fingers digging into his cheeks as he presses down. “We’re just making you a good whore again. That’s what you want, remember? You want to make us happy and please us. That’s all you want, isn’t it? All you’re good for?”

And it is--Snow finds himself nodding, even as more cold lube is drizzled over his limp cock, the shock of it making him twitch where he lies on the table. He tries not to stare as the trooper’s gloved hand grabs at his flaccid dick and holds it upright, then lines the thick rod up against the puffy red slit; and yet he finds himself unable to look away as the large rod is worked past the edges and pushed inside.

It hurts--has Snow arching his hips, his teeth gritted around a strangled cry--and yet he can’t move away, can do nothing to stop the intrusion as it slides into his cock, deeper, _deeper_ , stretching his dick from the inside out in an exquisite kind of pain that he’s never experienced before. 

“That’s it,” the trooper growls, pistoning the rod deeper before he starts to work it in a slow, heavy thrusting motion, disfiguring Snow’s cock with every push. Each plunge of the rod lays Snow’s dick open wider, his slit red and bulging around the rod’s shiny-slick surface; and when he finally slides the rod out, humming in relish as he pulls it free millimeter by millimeter, it pops free with a wet noise and leaves Snow’s slit gaping, makes his cock look lewd and obscene where it lies flaccid against the twitching muscles in his thigh.

“Doesn’t his cock look better now?” One guard asks, giving Snow’s slit a mean little flick to have his hips bucking. 

“It does,” another agrees, working the tip of his gloved pinky into Snow’s slit and wriggling it, delighted by the gasping, half-choked cries he manages to pull from Snow’s throat. “It’s all gaping and red, just like a whore’s hole should be.”

A different trooper rubs his finger along Snow’s slit, and manages to work in the tip alongside the other guard’s pinky--stretching Snow’s cock out in a brand new kind of way, their fingers all but pulling his dick apart at the seam. He throws his head back against the table with a strangled keen of pain, blinking rapidly to try to get rid of the tears that make his vision blurry; and it only makes his chest arch into the air, offers his nipples up for the guards to tug and squeeze and torment, until there’s a few thin trickles of watery milk streaking down the sides of Snow’s chest to pool beneath him on the table.

“What a messy whore.” A guard grabs one of Snow’s tits, giving the tight pink nipple a vicious twist to see the way the weak spurts of milk dribble free. “I bet he could take a cock there, with just a bit more stretching...”

And as soon as the idea is dropped to the room, the chatter stops; the noise dies down, replaced instead with thoughtful silence. It’s only when the quiet has started to frazzle Snow’s already shot nerves that he looks around, trying to read some emotion on the troopers’ masked faces.

“...what?”


	8. Chapter 8

Two weeks later, and Snow Villiers is nothing but a memory, a once-strong, once-proud man long gone.

In his place is the whore called Snow--the toy of PSICOM, kept locked up in a single room of their base and given out as a reward, as a stress-relief device, as a boredom buster, whatever is needed of him in that moment; and in this moment, he’s currently busy servicing the two troopers who’ve just returned from capturing another L’cie.

“Remember when we first got this whore?” one asks, almost nostalgic as he steps up to the table that Snow lays face-up on and starts to pull out his cock. “He had so much fight in him...you remember that?”

“Dimly,” the other chuckles, walking around to the other side of the table and giving his half-hard length a few quick strokes. “Didn’t take too long to break him in, though, did it?”

“Nah. Sure didn’t.” 

“And look at him now--a perfect whore, with three pussies for us to have fun with.” The trooper grabs a fistful of dirty, short-cropped pale hair to tug Snow’s face up, and roughly pats a hand on his cheek, making his glassy eyes flutter open. “You hear that, Snow? You ready to make us feel good?”

And Snow nods, his mouth falling open to let the guard’s fingers slip inside, closing his lips around them in a gentle suckle; he is ready, wants nothing more than to please them, wants to do good for his masters and perhaps, if he is very good indeed, he will earn a reward in a gentle pet to his hair or a nibble of a sweet pulled from a trooper’s pocket.

In his current position, it is the absolute most he can hope for.

He doesn’t remember exactly when he lost his limbs--just remembers a meal that made him drowsy, and waking up in a new room of white in enough pain to make him sick. He remembers how neat the stitches were on his new wounds, how much lighter and helpless he felt as nothing but a torso and pelvis: with his legs gone from the hip down, his arms uprooted at the shoulder, he was little more than a living cocksleeve for PSICOM, made portable and easier to control.

And that was before they took his cock.

That was a procedure they didn’t even completely numb him for--Snow remembers lying on a table and helpless to move, caught in a fuzzy sort of half-asleep limbo as his cock was cut, mutilated, rearranged into something more pleasing for the troopers. He remembers watching their gloved fingers turn the remaining nub of flesh inside out, remembers the horror at seeing his most intimate place so mangled and ruined, exposed in shades of pink and red vessel and shiny fascia, puffy and inflamed around his stitches.

It took a week of painful care--of fingers poking and prodding, of antiseptics, of drainage and cut stitches--for the swelling to go down enough for Snow to finally see his new pussy.

And that’s where the guards have their attention now: on the soft, supple hole between Snow’s legs, the flesh they’ve forced to be slick and accepting for whatever they want to introduce to him. It had been unbearably strange at first, the feeling of a cock sinking into where his own had been, stretching out new places and forcing his body to yield--but by now, by the dozens of troopers that have fucked into his pussy and left him dripping, he’s almost used to the feeling.

Almost.

“Still just as tight as I remember,” the first trooper purrs, sinking his cock into Snow’s pussy with a long, luxurious sigh and not stopping until his balls come flush with Snow’s reddened skin. “A true example of the wonders of modern medicine...you’d never know this used to be a worthless little cock, would you?”

“Sure wouldn’t,” the other trooper chuckles, pulling his own length free to rub the leaking tip across Snow’s mouth and smear his precum over the slight part to those puffy lips. As if on cue, Snow’s tongue lolls out to lave over the flushed, ruddy head of it, the tip of his tongue curling around the trooper’s slit to lick up the beads of salty fluid pearled up there. “He’s a perfect whore, now. Took some time and some effort, but I think it’s worth it.”

The two of them fall into silence, and the room becomes quiet save for the rhythmic, wet sounds of their fucking--the sloppy noises of Snow’s drooling mouth trying to hold onto the cock he’s been offered, and the slick suction of his tight little cunt as it’s pummeled by the other trooper’s pounding dick. With no arms or legs, he can’t get away from their abuse; but he’s thankful for the two guards coming down here to give his day a purpose, thankful for the two pistoning cocks that keep him in the middle of the table, rocked back and forth between the two strong bodies using him instead of sliding out onto the floor.

They really are too kind to him.

So he tries to make it good for them--tries to clench his newfound pussy muscles around the cock railing him, tries to keep his throat open for the guard at his face to more easily fuck--and finds himself rewarded by gloved fingers grabbing at his swollen tits, pinching at his puffy nipples and tugging, making thin milk spurt up into the air and sending a rush of pleasure shooting down his spine. Snow arches up into the touch as much as he can, much to the delight of the troopers; but their laughter only makes him smile weakly around the fat cock stretching out his lips.

If they’re pleased, then that means he’s doing good. That means he’s fulfilling his purpose and doing what he was made, mutilated, conditioned to do, and that he might earn a reward instead of another punishment, that he might be given a word of praise or a pat across his sensitive chest. If their cocks are twitching inside him and their hips are rolling faster, fucking him with more force, then he’s satisfying them exactly the way he should be.

Snow feels the first guard grab at his hips, his fingers sinking in as he suddenly slams himself forward, curving over Snow’s body to latch his mouth onto one of his puffy, leaking nipples. The trooper’s cum rushes into him at the same time that the one fucking his face bursts over his tongue, and amid their moans and the bitter, salty taste of success he finds himself smiling.

His name is Snow, and he’s a whore.

But more importantly, he’s a good boy.


End file.
